Rules of Engagement
by lamentomori
Summary: Sabbaticals are not permanent, but quitting is. In giving up wrestling, what else does Punk intend to walk away from? (7 Sins continuity) Warnings: 2nd person Colt PoV, slash (Colt/Punk), implied het (Punk/AJ Lee). smut, kind of maudlin, profanity.
1. Porcupine Formation

Warnings:_7 Sins Continuity_ 2nd person Colt PoV, mild slash (Colt/Punk), kind of maudlin, brief mentions of AJ Lee and implied het.

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"Hey." He flops on the sofa beside you, a grin on his face and rests his head on your shoulder, without thought your arms wraps around him and pull him tighter to you.

"Hi." You say, as he snuggles against you, making himself more comfortable and sits watching TV in silence. You're not really sure what he's here for, but you aren't really in the mood to question him. His _sabbatical_ has made him a curiously boisterous creature and if he's going to sit quietly, let you watch this documentary in peace, you're not going to complain. He's so quiet, you actually think he's fallen asleep, but when you glance at him, he's awake, watching the show with rapt attention until the commercials.

"I've asked April to move in with me." He grins up at you and you shrug vaguely, you can't say you're surprised. O'Neil is definitely either The One or very close to it, moving in is something you'd been expecting.

"That's nice? What'd she say?" You ask him, loosening your hold on him slightly, and he twists to face you, that grin still in place,

"Yes!" He crows and you find a smile on your face, more at his happiness that your own, because really you're not feeling overly happy right now, something sullen has settled in your stomach, which makes no real sense, but there's something forebodingly _happy_ about his expression. There's been a subtle dynamic shift between you both as of late, something is _different_, something has changed and it's not just that you're no longer in the same business.

"That's good, Punkers. You gonna help her move." He nods and turns back to the TV, snuggling up once more, taking your hand in his own.

"Yup, she's coming up next week." He squeezes your hand, and raises it to his lips. "I need you to do me a favour, Cabana." He kisses the back of your hand, and you hold back a sigh. You don't want to get roped into doing more D.I.Y. for him, you hate putting up shelves, and he's fucking useless when it comes to power tools, nothing good or fun will come of it. "Need you to come shopping with me."

"Oh fuck." You mutter, you might dislike D.I.Y. but you _hate _shopping, especially hate shopping with him. It's an exciting game of avoiding fans and autograph hunters that's only gotten worse since he and the WWE parted ways.

"Aww... C'mon, Cabana! It'll be _fun_!" He turns to you with that fucking dorky grin on his face. You're growing to hate that grin. He might look happy, but it's resulted in all manner of minor irritations, little niggling things that are grating on your nerves, things that you don't really think are his fault, more like your own frustrations at your prolonged stint in singledom and rapidly advancing years. Your age is becoming increasingly high, it's not going to be too long before you need to use both feet and hands to count it on, and it's got you worried in a stupid pensive way. Your annoyances, your grievances aren't caused by him, and you more than know that, but he's an easy target. He's so very happy, and whilst you're not exactly _miserable_, you're nowhere near his level of happiness.

"No, no it won't be, Punkers." You mutter, scowling at the screen, avoiding looking at him, ducking his inquisitive stare. You're being unfair, cruel almost. He's happy, you're not, and that isn't his fault.

"Might be... It's an important shopping spree, and I need your sage advice." He squirms over you, straddling your lap, his eyes bright with excitement, a happy little smile on his face. His hand catches your chin and forces you to look at him. Something in his eyes hardens as he stares at you, and you feel hopelessly small. You can hear the beginning of the string of questions forming in his mind.

"When?" You sigh, knowing that fighting him on this is only going to delay your inevitable conceding to his request, you've never quite mastered the art of turning your best friend down, and the bastard knows that painfully well. Asking after the time clarifies when you have to endure shopping, and the added bonus of distracting him from questioning you.

"Tomorrow." He grins and pecks you on the nose. "I need to get it done before I head down to Florida, so it _has_ to be tomorrow." He seems easily, and willingly distracted from his questioning, and you're grateful for that.

He stays with you for a while but eventually goes back to his place, sleeps in his own bed for a change, but the strange _off_ feeling you have lingers. You can't put your finger on the why or the what, and it annoys you. You like to think you know yourself, like to think that you understand your motivations and reasoning pretty well, yet this odd feeling has you stumped, you've no reason to feel this way, at least no good reasons anyway.

The next morning you're woken up by him pinching your nose, his overly bright, overly awake smile greeting you. You hide your head under the blankets and hope he'll go away.

"Morning, Cabana. C'mon, rise and shine, busy day ahead of us!" For all his enthusiasm, he's burrowing under the blankets with you, snuggling up, wrapping your arms around himself, settling mostly on top of you. You grope around for your cell, checking the time, and feeling more than unimpressed with it being so early in the morning. You hold him fast, and kiss his hair, your eyes drifting closed once more.

"Too early." He chuckles at your plaintive whining, but the way he's snuggling against you, the way his head is tucked under your chin, suggests that he's more than happy with the idea of having a nap.

"You get like an hour, maybe two... Then we're going out." His voice is softly mumbled, his breath warm against your neck. "Didn't sleep too well, was too excited." He nuzzles against you again, his lips brushing your skin, a slightly more deliberate kiss is pressed to your throat, and you grumble at him. As tempting as sex with Punkers always is, you're tired, and he makes a very good, if octopus like, teddy bear.

"Shower?" You wake up some time later, feeling more alive, and more willing to indulge him and his well rested madness, especially after waking to find him all warm and snuggling against you. It's depressing, but the one person you snuggle more than any other is your fundamentally heterosexual best friend. You really need to find a woman, or get a dog, _something_ that stops you from actually enjoying having him, and him alone, to cuddle. For a start, it's weird, and all kinds of depressing really. He blinks up at you, sleep clouding his eyes. In that moment he looks so _painfully_ like himself, so much like the man who was _is_ your best friend, and your heart clenches slightly.

"Showered before I got here." He sits up, rubbing at his eyes, and yawning. "Go shower, I'll make food, then we can get going."

"You could come get _clean_..." You grin at him, and he genuinely looks torn. You're more than hopeful that this offer will distract him from dragging you out shopping. You're not in the mood to be subjected to adventures in retail with CM Punk.

"You're trying to distract me..." He mutters, getting off the bed, a wry smile on his lips.

"It working?" You grin, and stand close behind him, pressing tiny little kisses over the back of his neck, hearing his breath catch in his throat.

"No..." His head tilts to the side, giving you more access to his skin, and your arms wrap around his waist, sneaking under his shirt to caress his stomach. "Stop it... This is an important mission." He moans quietly, his head falling back onto your shoulder. "I need to get this done today." You kiss the tattoo just behind his ear and he shivers, his eyes drifting closed. "No fair."

"C'mon... Whatever it is, just order it online. It'll be cheaper." You lap at the tattoo behind his ear again, and more of his weight rests against you as he slumps slightly. "It'll take like five minutes, and then the rest of the day, I'm all free to _entertain_ you." You hand running along the top of his pants, and he moans softly.

"No... This is something that has to be purchased live and in person." He steps away from you, his eyes narrowed. "Stop trying to distract me." You shrug at him and grab some clothes, tossing them on the bed, and head to the shower. He follows along behind you, and perches on the toilet lid, watching you wash.

"What is it you're buying anyways?" You rinse the shampoo from your hair, eyes clamped closed, but you can hear him fidgeting and cursing quietly.

"Ha... Well... Uh..." He stalls, and you turn to look at him, an eyebrow raised. He looks away from you, fidgeting and looks uncomfortably embarrassed+. The urge to wrap your arms around him and make him feel better is painfully strong. You're his best friend, it's your _job_ to make him feel better. "I'm gonna ask her to marry me." He says very quietly, and your blood runs cold. You've no idea what to say to that, no idea how to respond, your brain shuts down, and you nod absently, unable to focus on anything but his words. _I'm gonna ask her to marry me_. It's not a sentence you'd ever expected him to say, and you don't know how to process it.

"I _knew_ we'd end up back here." It sounds brutally petulant, and honestly, that's exactly how you feel. You've been feeling that way all day, out of sorts and mildly unwell. You've been dragged round every jewellery store in the city, only to come back to the first one you went into. You'd been absolutely certain that the first ring he'd looked at would be the one he'd end up buying, and as he pays for it, the urge to be smug about it is all but irresistible.

"Do you think she'll like it?" He keeps glancing at you; he seems fidgety, like he has too much energy, his fingers twitching nervously. "I think she'll like it... I_ want_ her to like it... Do you think she'll say yes? Man... I might be making a fucking huge mistake... I don't think I am, but what do you think, Cabana? Cabana? _Colt! _You listening?" The store clerk looks at you, eyebrows raised as Punk babbles, and you smack the back of his head.

"She'll love it, and she'll say yes. Now, take the damn thing so we can leave." You walk out the store, and slump against the wall, something bitter and sullen churning in the pit of your stomach. This is stupid, completely and utterly stupid. You've no right to feel like this, no reason to have this odd bile creeping up your throat. Years of friendship won't change overnight, years of friendship won't be eliminated by him signing a piece of paper and putting a ring on his finger. At the end of the day, he'll still be your best friend; he'll still be the same old Punkers. Even if certain aspects of your friendship will be different, even if certain _activities_ will have to cease.

"You okay?" He comes out the store, an awkward expression on his face, his eyes narrowed, and you nod, tugging your cap lower, hiding your eyes from him. He huffs, the exhalation tinged with doubt. He doesn't believe you for a second, he knows you as well as you know him, so he knows that there's something wrong. He might not know what it is, but he knows there's something up with you and you wish you weren't in the same boat. You wish you knew what was wrong with you, but you don't, not really at least. You an inkling, but it's petty, selfish and so very stupid.

"We done here?" You're certain that the question came out wrong, that it sounded far harsher than it should have, and you glance at him, watch something dark pass over his face, feeling briefly but utterly guilt-ridden. He's done nothing wrong, he's happy, and you need to be happy for him, instead of in this odd bitter black mood, snapping at him for no reason.

"_Yeah_." His voice is rough, and he clears his throat, looking at you with an oddly searching, slightly desperate expression on his face. He wants to ask you questions, he wants to get to the bottom of what's the matter, but he's clearly not sure how to go about it. "Yeah, all done." It shouldn't but that statement feels final, it feels _wrong_. You're not telling him that though. You're not sharing this avenue of thought with him, without having walked down it yourself first. It's not going to be a pleasant journey, and you're already putting an dampener on his buoyant mood, you want away from him, away to sulk and brood in peace and quiet.

"Look, some thing's come up... I gotta go." You glance away from him, unable to take the blatant _hurt_ in his eyes at your words.

"Yeah... I'll see you later?" His voice is clipped, his tone coolly harsh, but there's an odd undercurrent something strangely fragile under the frost. He stares at you for a few seconds, then ignores you in favour of dealing with a text he just received. You're grateful for the crowds of people cluttering the street, grateful that they make it easy to slip away whilst he's distracted. It's a cowardly thing to do, but you're not feeling brave, you're feeling off, _wrong_, and you don't want to have to explain why to him, especially when you've only half an idea of why yourself.

When you get back home, you flop onto the couch, lying on your back and stare up at the ceiling. _One and I'm done_, that's what he's always said. When he gets married, it's for keeps and O'Neil, she's The One. You can't resent her that, certainly can't hold it against her. You like her well enough and she makes him happy, deliriously happy. That's a hell of a lot more than anyone else, you included, can say. Since he quit the WWE, he's been so much more contented, so much happier, and that's all down to her. This happiness with April, this _marriage _to her, it's the next chapter of his life. The lovely Miss O'Neil, _she's_ his next chapter, and you need to be happy for him. Your best friend, unlike you, has finally grown up and it's time for him to put away childish things, time to stop _playing_ at being an adult, and to actually _be_ one. This is why the sex between you has been so soft, so very gentle lately; it's been a tiny little whisper of goodbye each time, each time it's been letting go, moving on from _this_ part of his life, getting ready for the next. He's moving on, as he always does, and you know he doesn't keep the things he doesn't need; he doesn't keep what isn't necessary to him. You're a part of his life before April, you're part of his wrestling life, part of something he neither wants, nor _needs_ anymore. Whether you want it or not, you're certain he's going to leave you behind. Years ago, the Christmas after the dungeon room, you remember swearing to yourself that you wouldn't be another person who turned their back on him, that you were in this for the long haul, that no matter what you'd be there for him. It never once occurred to you that he might grow tired of you, that he might move on, that in his typically myopic point of view, he would turn his back on you. You're going to be consigned to the past, you can tell. You're going to be nothing more than a set of uncomfortable memories to him. Every time you've had sex with him, every time you've held him, kissed him, it's going to be nothing more than a dark little stain on your friendship, so the best thing to do, for him at least, is to cut you out, to remove you from his life so that his marriage is spotless. You understand that, you don't like it but it makes sense in a some stupid, selfish, Punk logic way. You've always defended his habit of cutting out what he considers unnecessary, but that's because you've always been confident that you'd always be necessary to him, and the fact that you're not is a bitter pill to swallow.

* * *

_Consider this a direct sequel to **Going Home**_** - **_In terms of the Continuity it is at least. :3 _

**_As ever:_**

**_If you liked it: YAY! Let me know what you liked and why!_**

**_If you didn't like it: BOO! Let me know why so I can try to fix it!_**


	2. Boar's Head Formation

Warnings:_7 Sins Continuity_ 2nd person Colt PoV, mild slash (Colt/Punk), kind of maudlin, brief mentions of AJ Lee and implied het.

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There's always been a part of you that thought that Punk and Cabana went together like peanut butter and jelly, but that's clearly not the case. People change, their relationships, their personalities, their way of thinking, they all change, so it only makes sense that eventually your friendship with Punk would change. The truth of the matter is it's been changing for some time now. You don't really like this fact, but fact it is and there's nothing to be done about it. Nothing stays the same, it can't, evolution is inevitable. You don't see Punk for a long time, and you're glad for that. You don't think you've much of anything worth saying to him. His texts tend to go unanswered for longer than usual, your replies shorter and less open, not welcoming a longer conversation. He doesn't call, and you can't say you're surprised. He knows you well enough to know to leave you alone when you need it. Although, that might just be arrogance speaking, he's still in Florida, still with O'Neil; it's entirely probable that he hasn't given the whole thing that much thought. He's probably entirely happy where he is, and not concerned with you at all.

Your emotions are a mess, and there's no real justification for the way you feel. It's strange because you feel weirdly like he's cheating on you, but you're definitely not together. You're acting like a jealous ex, and it's incredibly frustrating. You _are_ happy for him; you're absolutely delighted that he's so happy, that he's found this happiness with April. The part of you that isn't, well it's tiny, and stupid. The majority of you is just worried, worried about being left behind, _abandoned._ You've no explanations for your actions, and no way to justify them. You're aware that you're in a mood; you know that solely because you're _on_ when you're in the company of people who aren't fans, when you're with friends, you find yourself falling into the role of Colt Cabana rather than being yourself and it's got you worried. Despite the concerns of your other friends, you've no words to explain why you're in a mood. You can only attempt to placate them with actions, when those don't work; you offer distractions and quick subject changes.

_Hey! You home? - Zombie Punkers 18:07_

_I am... Why? - sent 18:42_

_Can I come over? - Zombie Punkers 18:44_

You stare at the message and feel sick. You literally can't remember the last time he asked if he could come over. You know change is inevitable, you know it's necessary, but change shouldn't hurt this much. It's brutally painful, but maybe it has to be. For years, you've been so very close, more than likely too close, and it's probably been bad for you both. There has to be more distance between you. You've relied on each other too much other the years, and now he has O'Neil to rely on instead. You might still be in the same position of only having him, but he isn't, and you don't want to be a thorn in his side, you don't want to cause problems in his relationship with his Neo.

_Since when do you need to ask, Punkers? - sent 19:29_

"So, she said yes?" You ask him as he enters your living room, his dorky grin seems to be surgically attached to his face. You're relieved that he arrives so quickly, it means he'd more than likely sent the message after leaving his place, he'd not stayed home and asked on the off chance of being told to fuck off. You know he's going to leave you behind, but you want to keep as much of your _best friend_ as you can, for as long as you can, so that fact alone lifts some weight from your shoulders.

"Yup!" He flops down on the couch, curling up beside you, and places a quick kiss to your cheek, before resting his head on your shoulder. You manage to stop your arm from automatically going around him. You instead shift him away from you, gently pushing him to the other end of the sofa. He looks mildly confused. "What?" You shake your head and switch the TV off, turning to face him. You've thought long and hard on this, you know what you have to do, and you _know_ how he's going to react. You remember so very long ago that you'd told him: _single, dating, married, you and me, we're Punk and Cabana, that doesn't change_ but it has to, he's proposed, she's accepted, they're getting married, and he's so very happy. You won't be something that can take that from him, because there is no way that O'Neil, awesome as she is, would understand that sometimes her husband fucks his best friend and it doesn't _mean_ anything, not really at least. It's just sometimes he needs it and actually, it means quite a lot. There's a saying about having your cake and eating it and Punkers always does bitch about being fat, so you're doing him a favour really. He crawls along the sofa, kneels in front of you and cups your cheek. "What?"

"Don't." You say firmly and stand. You sit in an armchair, watching him carefully; he looks even more confused and more than a little unhappy, miserable in fact. His moods are liable to change with the wind, and you can only hope that O'Neil is able to keep up with his capricious nature. He can be hard work in that respect.

"Don't what? Colt, you sick? You need me to look after you? I can go grab some stuff from my place. I'm a good nurse remember." He grins; seemingly satisfied that illness must be the problem and stands, a determined look on his face. You sigh, and shake your head.

"Sit down Punk. We need to talk." He sits and stares at you, emotions flitting through his eyes, none of them staying around very long. You know that if anyone else were to look at him right now, all they'd see was a blank stare. You briefly wonder if O'Neil would know that he was rapidly trying to predict the situation, failing and panicking because he can't tell what's going to happen next. He hates being on the back foot, hates not being able to guess where a conversation is heading, and right then he can't work out what you're going to say.

"What?" He asks again, tucking his legs up, knees under his chin, defensive posture on the outside but really, for him it's the opposite. He's not sure what's going on, he doesn't like it and is preparing for an attack. The best defence is a good offense, after all, and from behind his knee fortress, he's preparing an assault.

"We're friends, right?" You ask him, carefully keeping your own posture relaxed, but he can read you as well as you can read him. He knows you don't want to say this but have decided you have to, even if it's painful, even if it's something you don't want to say, and he doesn't want to hear, it's something that needs to be done. His fingers drum rapidly on his knee, an indication that he wants to offer you some sort of comfort, itching to come over and hold you close, to tell you everything is going to be okay. It's more than a little depressing how easy he is to read for you, how easily you can guess how he's going to react to your words, and you know that there's very little that's going to be _okay_ after this.

"Stupid question! You're my _best_ friend, you know that... What you worried I'm gonna ask someone else to be best man?" He chuckles, trying to make you laugh, trying to convince you that you're worried over something so trivial that it's laughable to be concerned at all. You stare at him blankly, and his smile dies on his lips.

"No... But it _is_ about you getting married." His eyes narrow, shoulders tensing, preparing for a fight. You almost sigh; this isn't something to fight about. This is something to accept as necessary, and then to try to move on from. People change, friendships change, situations change, lives change, that's just the nature of the beast, you _both_ need to deal with that. "I'm happy for you, _so_ fucking happy. O'Neil makes you smile more than I've ever seen and that's great." His shoulders relax; his lips stretching in the _you're the best Colt_ smile. "But..." It falls away, his eyes narrow once more, knuckles growing white as his hands clench on his knees. "I won't let you risk it for a fuck." You don't look at him, studying a picture on your wall instead.

"A fuck?" He sounds confused, his voice softly distant. You keep your eyes focused on the picture, and avoid looking at him. You don't want to see the expression on his face, don't want to see the way his fingers will be twitching, the way concern and annoyance will be warring in his eyes. You can picture him so easily; you can _see_ him so clearly in your mind.

"The _physical _side of our friendship, Punkers... It has to stop." You don't look at him; you keep staring at the picture. The room is so quiet you can hear him breathing; you're almost convinced that you can hear his heartbeat, only almost though, because the thudding of your own heart is deafening. "Punk?" You glance at him, and are caught by the odd anguish on his face.

"You think... _Just a fuck_..." He stands, and starts pacing. He wasn't expecting you to say that and his mind works better when he's in motion. Your eyes track him, back and forth, back and forth, over and over again. Alls you do is sit on the chair watching him, feeling oddly sick, feeling oddly like you should be saying something else, something to explain better, but you can't, you don't have any words. He walks to the door and starts pulling on his shoes and coat. "Fine." He snaps, voice devoid of all emotion, and he leaves, closes the door quietly behind him. When he's not sure how to proceed in a situation, he goes and broods, thinks and re-thinks and over-thinks, all in a bid for clarity. It's no surprise when he leaves, it is a surprise that he left without drama, you'd been expecting him to blow up and argue, but his calm acceptance fills you with hope that he'll see that this is necessary. Right now, he's happy with April, and in the future, he'll be perfectly happy with _just_ April.

* * *

_Many thanks to the lovely Ladies and Gentlemen who reviewed:_

**Guest, ****Rebellecherry, littleone1389, and Brokenspell77.**

_Yes more, looking at four chapters, maybe five at most, probably published fairly quickly, because trains in the UK take forever to go anywhere and the weather sucks... Being back here for any length of time reminds me of some of the reasons I left in the first place. Stupid, soggy Britland. _

**_As ever:_**

**_If you liked it: YAY! Let me know what you liked and why!_**

**_If you didn't like it: BOO! Let me know why so I can try to fix it!_**


	3. Tortoise Formation

Warnings:_7 Sins Continuity_ 2nd person Colt PoV, implied slash (Colt/Punk), implied het (Punk/AJ Lee).

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"Cabana? You home?" You sit very still and listen to O'Neil huff in the stairwell, her little fist pounding off your door. You didn't know she was in town, but then over these last few days, you've not spoken to Punk. This is literally the longest in ten years you've gone without texting at least. Prior to this, the record was ten hours, excluding flight-times, but those aren't real periods of time. Flying is like being in a weird state of suspended animation, between time-zones and places, neither here nor there."_Fucking man._" You hear her snarl and the loud thud of her fist once more.

"He's fucking out." Your neighbour's voice is loud and angry. You can picture the capillaries in his cheeks bursting as always happens when there's too much noise from your apartment.

"You sure?" O'Neil sounds just as mad, and you're not entirely sure why. You could guess at the reason, but you don't think you want to, none of the possibilities you can think of are particularly good really. "I need to talk to him." She sighs, and you can hear your neighbour clear his throat, he's more used to dealing with big, burly dudes coming to your apartment, a pretty woman for a change has more than likely made his day.

"Well, he ain't answering, sweetheart." You can picture the slightly sleazy smile that'll be bleeding over the man's lips. "No man's gonna leave a pretty little thing like you out in the cold."

"Yeah..." O'Neil sounds utterly unimpressed. "When the bastard gets back tell him to call O'Neil." She stomps down the stairs, and you know full well that your neighbour isn't going to tell you anything. You stare at the wall in front of you, and consider your options. You don't really like any of them, so you go about your day, avoiding your cell, and concentrating on what's necessary, more than grateful when Marty extends the invitation to go out and eat. He's in a mood too, and spending time with him kind of makes you feel better. Who better to deal with a maudlin Cabana than his equally maudlin comedy partner? You know the answer to that, you know _exactly_ who would be better company for you and Marty really, but you can't have them. The very reason for that had been pounding on your door this morning.

_Mikey! Drive me to the airport! Leo's busy! - O'Neil 10:15_

The message comes a few days later. You stare at it, completely bewildered. You were certain that O'Neil had been trying to break your door down to gut you for fucking her Punk, but now she's trying to get you to drive her to O'Hare.

_Take the train. - sent 10:19_

You toss your cell aside, and return your attention back to sleeping; it's too early to deal with humans.

_Mikey! Come on! Don't be an asshole! - O'Neil 10:22_

_Why break the habit of a lifetime? - sent 10:26_

_I'll give you gas money... And a footlong! - O'Neil 10:29_

_Pick you up at Punk's place? - sent 10:31_

_Now would be good! - O'Neil 10:33_

You're easily swayed by Subway, it's something you think you're going to have to look into getting sorted, being bribed with sandwiches is possibly not a good thing. You're more than a little concerned about the idea of being trapped in a car with O'Neil, but if you're driving her somewhere, she's unlikely to try and kill you. It doesn't hurt to be cautious though, and you're fairly certain Marty will be capable of calling nine-one-one should he have to.

_Marty... Check on me in like four hours, kay? - Sent 10:37_

You get over to Punk's quickly and help her load her luggage, holding your car door open for her, then starting the trip to the airport. O'Neil doesn't say anything, just sits staring out of the window, her fingers drumming on her thigh. You're more than grateful for the heavy silence, it might feel incredibly awkward, but it's a lot better than her coming at you like a rabid spider monkey, which you imagine she would be if she knew just what you and Punk have done to each other over the years. The thick silence lasts until you halfway to the airport, then she clears her throat, the noise loud in the quiet car.

"Fix him." Her voice is oddly cold, she doesn't look at you, and the drumming on her thigh doesn't stop. You laugh and shake your head. _Fix him_, he's nothing to do with you any more, you can't fix this, it's their problem now. You cut the ties with him _for_ him, left him free for her, and now she has to step up to the plate and deal with her fiancé.

"He's your problem now, you fix him." You stop at the lights and she smacks your arm with surprising strength, you won't be surprised if there's a bruise forming, you feel incredibly sorry for your door in that moment. It endured several blows from O'Neil. You sigh, and close your eyes. You really do need to write some kind of manual for her, some kind of _Caring for your Punk_ guide, you have a lot of useful, practical advice that you can't give her in person; you can't tell her all the little tricks and things that really you shouldn't have any idea about in a way that lets her smack you again, your arm is still throbbing slightly.

"You broke him, you fix him." She sounds seriously pissed, and you glance at her, her eyes are narrowed, glaring at you, her lips twisted in a stern frown that makes her pretty face look incredibly intimidating. "I don't know what you did but _you_ have to fix him." You swallow heavily, and feel unbearably unwell. You didn't break him; you spared him the hassle of having to completely destroy your friendship. You amputated the part that _had _to be removed. He can't fuck you whilst married to the woman he loves, you won't let him. He loves her, and you won't let him jeopardise that for something so childishly trivial as fucking you.

"He's your problem now." You repeat, willing the lights to change to green faster. You didn't do anything that wasn't necessary; you didn't do anything that didn't need to be done. If anything she should be thanking you, you did this as much for her as him, _almost_ at least. She sighs, her anger seeming drifting away with it.

"He was so happy at first, when he first asked me to marry him... He was giddy... I've _never _seen him that happy when it's just us, but now." Another sigh and you chance another glance at her. She looks miserable, staring down at her ring, the light catching on the diamond. It's beautiful; he chose well, your sage advice was used to great effect. "I'd never make him choose, you know that, right?" Her voice is soft, wistful almost. You swallow down what tastes a lot like bile.

"What?" You ask her, feeling slightly dumbfounded, and a lot uncomfortable, your voice a pitiful croak. Her words, her tone, you can't help but wonder just how much she knows about how _close_ you and Punk were.

"Oh please! I'm not stupid, Mikey." She laughs, the sound surprisingly happy and light. "I don't think any woman with eyes is _that_ stupid." She sounds horribly amused and you feel somehow even more uncomfortable, she laughs at you again, and you focus on the lights, feeling utterly despondent that you aren't capable of changing their colour solely with the power of your mind.

"You can't have your cake and eat it." You mutter, pressing the gas pedal down as the light _finally _changes, briefly wondering if it'd be worth paying a speeding ticket to get this over with, there's no way this conversation is going to be fun, no way this is going to end well. You and O'Neil aren't going to be friends; you and Punk aren't going to be friends too much longer, so it might be worth paying the fine to be able to wash your hands of this sooner.

"What else can you do with cake?" You remember him saying this to you before, the first time O'Neil visited you just after his _sabbatical _started, the three of you under your duvet in your living room, him sandwiched between both you and April, his head on your shoulder, and his arm around your waist. "Very few people get the option." She says softly, her voice is quiet but filled with conviction. "Fewer still deserve it." You glance at her; her eyes are focussed on the road ahead. "He deserves it." She sounds firm, determined. She means what she's saying, she fully believes it, and you're completely certain she has no idea what she's actually talking about. "I won't make him choose and you won't either. _We_ make him happy and fuck knows, he deserves to be happy."

"I..." You sigh and really want to start speeding to the airport now. You've no idea what to say in response to that. You're not entirely certain Punk does deserve the opportunity to eat his cake; he's terribly spoiled as it is, giving him even more leeway will only make him worse. There's also the fact that you're certain that she has no idea the full extent of the physicality of your relationship with Punk. You're entirely sure she has no idea that you and Punk have had sex more times that you can count. You've done things to Punk that she can't even imagine, have had him do things to you that you're certain no one else would even consider. Your relationship was more than mere friendship, it was love, devotion, a bond deeper than brotherhood, love without being _in_ love, and has to be dialled back for her sake.

"_Scott_." She hisses and you turn to her, eyes wide in shock. You _know _that only your mother has said your name in that tone of voice before, and you feel a lot like a child once more. "Right now, he has me but he doesn't have you. He's miserable because of that. Miserable because you pushed him away."

"_Miserable_? An exaggeration surely, O'Neil." You mutter, getting caught by another red light, you're out of luck today it seems. She doesn't sound like she's joking though, she sounds horribly earnest, and you feel sick, but it doesn't change the fact that what you did was for his own good.

"He sure as shit isn't fucking happy and _you_ look like some fucker just killed your dog and raped the corpse." She snaps and you think that perhaps she spends entirely too much time in his company, but beneath her irritation is an unexpected fondness aimed at you, maybe there's a chance that this isn't something she's saying solely for his benefit. "I want my boys happy." She says softly. "You two... You kind of come as a package deal, you know. Date one... Endure the general stupidity and or grouchiness of the other." You look over at her; she turns to you with a slight smile. "Fix him. You need each other way too much to be apart like this. Don't make me come between you, because I don't want to, and neither one of you will manage alone." She smiles fondly at you and pats your arm. You can't meet her eyes, instead you glance away. Your eyes feel strangely gritty, and your throat weirdly hot. "I don't want the details, I don't want a threesome, all I want is _both_ of you happy. Whatever it is you need to be to each other, whatever it is you have to do... Just _do_ it! Because, I won't put up with this shit. I'll fucking lock you both in a room till it's sorted." She sounds pissed again, but she definitely has a fond lilt to her smile. You're kind of glad it's him who's marrying her, you're not certain you'd ever be able to endure her being annoyed with you on a regular basis. She might be a cute little woman, but there's something about her that seems like she'd be more than capable of ripping your nuts off and stuffing them down your throat if she was annoyed enough. You nod slightly and pay attention to the road again. You need to talk to him, you need to work something out, making a decision on something that involves both of you without consulting the other never does work out too well for either of you. There's a way forward, there's a path that you can take, there's a branch of evolution you've not considered, and you'll find it together. "Thank fuck for that!" She laughs. "Was worried I was gonna have to make a presentation for you too!" She crows triumphantly, and grins at you. You stare at her blankly, your mind bewildered by the idea of a presentation.

"Wait, what?" You're beginning to think he might have found the only person in the entire World who's weirder than both of you combined, and that idea makes you bark a laugh. They're a good match, once you explain to Punk exactly why you can't fuck any more, why you can't be the way you were, why things _have _to change, you're sure she'll look after him perfectly well.

"Yup, with slides and everything! Get him to show you it. It's awesome, I'm very proud of the Venn diagram." Your cell chimes and she grabs it from the dash, a grin on her face still. "Passcode?" You look at her. She clearly is contented that you're going to fix Punk, and you think that she might be right, you're going to try and sort whatever it is you've done at least. "What I'll tell you mine." She rattles off four numbers and you tell her your own. There's a chance that maybe you and her will be friends, good friends, _better _friends even, once she's married him, because you think right now you already are her friend. "Ooo, pull over." You do as she asks, feeling confused. "Look! One awesome Venn diagram!" The photo she waves in front of you shows two circles, one labelled cake, the other eating, where they cross is possibly the worst drawing of Punkers ever, you've seen children do better, even more worryingly, _you've_ done better.

"It's spectacular." You tell her and pluck your cell from her hand. There's a message from Punk, and you can't keep the smile from your lips. The radio silence has been broken by O'Neil's interference, and you're grateful to her for that. You glance at her out of the corner of your eye and type a quick reply, noticing the contented smile on her lips.

_My fiancée is insane! - Zombie Punkers 11:32_

_This would be why she's your fiancée, Punkers. No sane woman would agree to marry your ass! - sent 11:42_

_Leave my ass out of this! - Zombie Punkers 11:44_

_You're the one who keeps bringing it up! - sent 11:46_

_Fuck you, Cabana! You mentioned my ass first! I was merely commenting on the mental health of the woman I'm marrying, you're the one bringing posteriors into things! - Zombie Punkers 11:49_

_Yeah, yeah, whatever, Punkers. I got to get your woman to the airport. -sent 11:53_

_You two talking about me? - Zombie Punkers 11:55_

You're grinning, feeling so much better than you have since he left your apartment. If he does turn his back on you, you're going to fall apart, but right now he's bantering with you and all feels right with the World. O'Neil snatches your phone out of your hand, reading the messages and sighs, shaking her head. You shrug and grin at her, getting nothing but a raised eyebrow and an unimpressed look. You're mildly worried that she'll see more in those harmless little messages than there is, that she'll somehow be able to read them and _know_ that you've had sex. _I don't want a threesome_. It's a strange thing for her to have said now that you think about it. You feel the bottom of your stomach drop, panicking that she _knows _you've fucked Punk.

"C'mon! I gotta catch this flight. Talk to your beloved later, 'kay?" She laughs, and you glance at her, the panic dying as she looks nothing but amused. "Why is he _Zombie Punkers _anyway?" She laughs again. You rub the back of your neck, starting the ignition once more, smirking slightly, feeling more than a little amused at the reasoning for making him a zombie. It's something that takes your mind from the mildly terrifying idea of her knowing you and Punk used to fuck, if nothing else.

"Punk's dead." You mutter, pulling out from the side of the road, heading for the airport again. When people asked you why he left the WWE, you told them he was dead, and the idea of him being a zombie amused you, you think, _know_, that it would amuse him if he knew. April snorts in amusement, and you can't say you're surprised to find it amuses her as well.

"CM Punk, _maybe_... But your idiot _Punkers_ is alive and infuriatingly well rested. He's putting up shelves... Fix those too." She starts texting him from your cell, waving the finished message in your face, after it's sent. You desperately hope she didn't read further back in your message history with Punk, not so long ago there's some far from work safe messages about his ass and what you intended to do to it when you got him pinned, or possibly tied, down next.

_We have better things to talk about than you and your ass, Punker. Get on with those shelves! Love you! Be home soon honey! XOXOX - sent 12:01_

"Why are you on Colt's cell?" She reads his reply aloud, her Punk impression is terrible, almost as bad as your own, and you find yourself laughing at it. "Because he's driving." She strangely reads her reply in some kind of odd put-on accent. "This doesn't explain why you're on his cell, what are you two up to? I don't trust you two together, you'll be conspiring to do something. Colt's a terrible influence. I was a sweet boy till I met that reprobate. Don't listen to him, everything he says is lies and deceit, unless he's talking about how awesome and lovely I am, because I'm both lovely and awesome! Cabana, you better be making me sound lovely! Wow, he's paranoid isn't he?" She laughs and you shake your head. He is paranoid, but then again so are you. There's a lot to be paranoid about between you both.

"He's an idiot. All this being well-rested and happy, I'm not sure it's good for him." You laugh; well-rested Punk is a handful, several handfuls really. You need to talk to him, need to get a story straight between you at least.

"Oh! _Now_ I get it! This was all a cunning plan! You made him miserable for a few days to make him more like his normal self! It didn't work, by the way, just made him lie on the floor, brooding... Do I want to know about the floor thing?" She mutters, setting your cell back on the dash.

"I... Honestly, I've no idea. The floor thing, it's just a _thing_." You really don't have the faintest idea about his lying on floors habit, over the years you've never gotten a good explanation for it, it's just a thing he does. There's a few of those really, you can't help but wonder how many of Punk's weird habits O'Neil's going to learn about when she's forced into sharing a domicile with him.

"The ears?" She asks, kicking her shoes off and bringing her feet up to rest on the car seat, knees under her chin and looking terribly comfortable. In contrast to Punk, with O'Neil, this is a happy, paying attention and interested pose. You're going to have to learn how to read her better you think, especially, if your conversation with Punk doesn't result in your friendship being decimated.

"School." You tell her, seeing her nod out of the corner of your eye. You're glad you don't have to explain more than that; it's one of those things that you know is true, but have never really discussed with Punkers himself.

"But they're cute." She mutters and you shrug, his ears are kind of _cute_, in a sticky-outy, too big way. "The dreidels?"

"Christmas presents." You tell her, a smile forming on your face. There are some very silly traditions between you and Punk. Socks and dreidels for Christmas is just one of those Punk and Cabana things, and it might be one of those things that you get to keep if your conversation goes well.

"I want a plushie one too, just so you know. He says it used to sing... I want mine pink and black and singing." She grins over at you, and find yourself shaking your head, wondering if the old man who made the plushie dreidel is still alive. Herschel died almost year ago, his funeral had been unsurprisingly massive, and it wouldn't be a surprise to find out that plushie guy had died too. You really need to find the next generation of elderly Jewish artisans.

"You're not demanding, are you?" You ask her, as you finally pull up to the airport; never have you ever felt more grateful to see O'Hare. You're not looking forward to the inevitable conversation you're going to have to have with Punk, but you're very glad to be saying goodbye to O'Neil.

"Not in the least." She nods as she gets out of the car. You pop the trunk and pick her bag out of it, setting it on the ground by her. "Thanks, Mikey." She gives you a tight hug, that you return, feeling slightly self-conscious. She's a nice woman, she's a good person, she makes Punk insanely happy, and you have the power to make her incredibly depressed, but you think she has the power to do the same to you. She might have a point that Punk needs you both to be happy, and his happiness is depressingly linked to your own. _Best friends_ has always seemed insufficient to describe the connection between you and Punk, you need to work something out, because now it's not just you and him who are miserable without each other, it's O'Neil too.

"You really are trying to start three-way rumours?" You ask her and she laughs, clearly not even thinking twice about it, but her words, the joke between you from when she was staying at your apartment with him, it lingers in your brain. You don't want a threesome, not really, but you don't _really_ want to give him up. That's the major problem, you know you should, you know you have to, but you don't want to stop sleeping with Punk. You've had sex plenty of times, but you've shared a bed with him so many more, you don't really want to let the _intimacy _of your friendship go.

"Hey, I'm a one man girl! Though, be warned, when you _finally _find Mrs Cabana, she and I are gonna have terrific lady days to counter act you and Punker fucking off to be idiots together. She better be hot and nerdy, Cabana." She waggles her finger at you, a grin very reminiscent of his perpetually dorky one on her pretty face. You can't really think of anything worth saying in response to that so she gets a vague nod, and a slight salute. You think that April just implied that she intended to have some kind of lesbian relationship with whatever woman you can find that's dumb or kind enough to marry you, and your brain isn't quite equipped to cope with that idea.

"Goodbye, O'Neil." You wave at her and she grabs her bag, laughing as she enters the airport. You get back in your car and grab your cell automatically, running on slightly bewildered autopilot. You're certain she'll have sent something to Punk, and you feel like you should check that it wasn't something inappropriate. The first thing you notice is that she's changed your wallpaper to a picture she snapped whilst all three of you were sitting curled up on the awesome sofa. Punkers sandwiched between you both, the smile on his face very much the cat that got the cream, you and O'Neil looking at him slightly, softer, fonder smiles on both of your faces. It's a kind of cute picture and you don't have the heart to change it back to whatever it was, though honestly, you're not entirely sure what it was before.

_I resent that, Punkers! I am a wonderful influence! If anyone's a reprobate, it's you. I'll be over when I've dropped off O'Neil. Don't touch the power tools till I get there, okay? - sent 12:20_

She writes a pretty good pretend you message you think. The structure is pretty Cabana-esque at least, though there are far too many exclamation points.

_Did she give you a weird cake speech too? - Zombie Punkers 12:29_

_All I'm going to say is, you can bitch at her if you start getting fat, Punkers. - sent 12:36_

You laugh, her impersonation of you, really is scarily good, that's basically what you'd been thinking on the matter, but then again you're not exactly a closed book kind of guy, though you'd have used _alls_ at the start of the sentence, and probably not _going to_.

_You've got your cell back by now, right? - Zombie Punkers 12:50_

No matter how good O'Neil's impression is, it's not good enough to fool Punk, he knows you inside out and back to front, after all, anything less than the real Colt Cabana isn't going to trick him, though to be honest, the real you is rarely able to trick him, but that works both ways. You can't keep things from him, and he can't keep anything from you either.

_I do. - sent 12:53 _

_Come help me with this shit... Black and fucking Decker hate me. - Zombie Punkers 12:55_

_You want me to bring cake? - sent 12:57_

_Please, I'm hungry. - Zombie Punkers 13:00_

* * *

_Many thanks to the lovely Ladies and Gentlemen who reviewed:_

**AshJovillette, ****Rebellecherry, littleone1389, and Brokenspell77.**

_Britain is cold, and wet and I miss China... Does mean this should be finished sooner rather than later. _

**_As ever:_**

**_If you liked it: YAY! Let me know what you liked and why!_**

**_If you didn't like it: BOO! Let me know why so I can try to fix it!_**

**_Also, AJ as ever troubles me... Any comments on the lovely Mrs Punk - PLEASE let me know!_**


	4. Skirmishing Formation

Warnings:_7 Sins Continuity_ 2nd person Colt PoV, slash (Colt/Punk), smut, implied het (Punk/AJ Lee).

* * *

"Where the fuck are you?" You shout into his, _their_ house now you suppose, once you arrive. It's big enough that you'd have to spend far too long looking for him if he didn't offer some kind of location indicating noise. You want to get this conversation over with, you want to get on with your life without Punk being your best friend as soon as possible.

"Here!" He hollers, and you follow the sound of swearing upstairs, finding him and a drill in one of the spare rooms. There's dust and anguish hanging in the air. He glances up at you, and springs to his feet, throwing himself at you. You're relieved you'd been holding the bag with his cake in it to one side, even more glad that it was in a bag in the first place, if it had been just in a box, he'd have squashed it. His legs are wrapped firmly around your waist, his arms clinging to you, his face buried against your neck. You think he might be shaking slightly, but you're not entirely sure, the idea is kind of ridiculous, and you don't really want to entertain it.

"Hello Punkers." You're surprised by how apathetically calm you sound, you don't feel calm in the least, your stomach has an inexplicable case of butterflies. The hand not carrying the cake bag strokes down his back once, and you step into the room, setting the cake down on the floor. "So, I've been informed you're putting up shelves... How's it going?" You can feel his breath against your neck, can feel his warmth all along the front of your body, and now that you have both hands free, you hold him close, cradling him like he was precious, caressing his back gently all the while.

"Horribly... I fucking hate power tools... The _bastards_." He sneers in your ear, and you laugh at him, squeezing him tightly. He takes his legs from around your waist, standing on his feet, but not letting you get away from him, his grip tenacious.

"Not going anywhere." You mutter, your chin resting on his shoulder. He doesn't loosen his hold, if anything he seems to cling that little bit tighter.

"Don't believe you..." He mutters, his breath warm and soft against your neck. You squeeze him tightly, and press a very small kiss to his temple.

"We need to talk." You mutter, and he nods. You feel the gesture rather than see it; he seems far from inclined to let you get away from him. "Punkers..." You move your hands from him, and he clings tighter.

"_Don't_." He mutters softly, and you sigh, trying to step out of his grasp. You won't be able to talk whilst he's in your arms, all you'll be focused on is him, and how perfectly familiar he is to you. "_Don't_..."

"Lemme go." Your voice is soft and quiet, and he makes an odd strangled noise. "I'm not going anywhere, but we need to talk." You squeeze him tightly once, and he finally lets you go, turning away and sitting before you can get a look at his face. You're not surprised in the least, painful things like this aren't something you talk about very often, and when you do, it's usually curled up in bed, but not fucking anymore isn't something you can discuss revelling in the afterglow of having just fucked.

"So... What we talking about?" His back is turned to you, his shoulders tense, and you sit on the floor behind him, resting your back against his. You can feel his body heat and his tension so easily. You want to turn round and wrap your arms around him; you want to carry on as before without concerns for his relationships because the girls he dates aren't The One, they're never The One. Only this time she is The One, and she's going to be his wife. This time you don't have the luxury of carrying on without a care in the World.

"You know what we're talking about... You're getting married, Punkers." You fuss with the cake bag absently, picking out the box and tap him on the shoulder with it. He takes it from you, and you listen to him opening it, listen to him licking the smears of frosting from the lid. You focus solely on the sounds of him, ignoring every other thing in the room; the little noises he makes are all you're interested in.

"This is good." He mutters, and you gently bump the back of your head against his, trying to get him to focus on the topic at hand. He can't keep avoiding the elephant in the room, even if she is tiny. You can't help but think that O'Neil would kill you if she knew you'd just compared her to an elephant. "I know... I asked her to in person, you know. I guess... I dunno, I didn't expect you to be all..." He sighs, and his finger covered in frosting appears in front of your face. "It's good." You can hear a smile in his voice; can hear him trying to work out what he wants to say, stalling for time with frosting based diversions. You lick the frosting from his finger, and without really thinking about it suckle on his skin gently, it's only when he makes a softly aroused noise do you realise what you're doing and stop.

"Yeah, it's good." He chuckles at you, and seems to rest against you some more, eating the cupcake you gave him in silence, save for occasional happy little moans. You have a brief memory of sitting in an old apartment of his, eating Nate's cupcakes. You were both so young then, so different to how you are now. That memory is so old it's before he tried to spill his brains over a wrestling ring, so old its long before that one afternoon in a dark little room with _Half-Baked_ playing on loop. "We're fucking old..." You groan, he laughs, and you can feel his shoulders shake with mirth.

"I told you that _months_ ago." He chuckles, and presses more firmly against you. "Old and broken, Bana." He sighs, and shifts slightly, his head resting on your shoulder. "So... No more sex?" He says sullenly. You can _just_ see his eyes in your peripheral vision. They're dark, clouded with something incomprehensibly sad. The air in the room seems to get heavier; it feels like you're sitting neck deep in a pit of molasses. "She knows... Or guessed, something like that... Too fucking smart for me, man." He mutters, and you nod. You got the feeling that was the case when she spoke to you in the car. She knows there's something more between you both that just _super_ close best friends.

"I guess... I mean, you're getting married and..." You mutter, your eyes focussed on the wall in front of you. There's lines drawn on it, little _X_s here and there indicating where to drill to put the shelves up. "She... We... It's not fair to her." He's not made a start on the shelves at all, you've no idea where all the dust motes drifting through the air have come from, but it's not from drilling. You watch them as they dance through the air, sparkling prettily in the sunlight

"No... But..." He sighs, and pulls away from you, standing, moving to be somewhere else in the room. You close your eyes and swallow heavily. This _tiny_ gesture of separation hurts, it's only going to get worse from here on out. "Life isn't fair." His voice is coming from by the window, soft, quiet and brimming with misery. "Nothing much of anything is fair, you of all people should know that." You can feel a morose little smile stretching your lips. You know the unfairness of the World all too well, you know how cruelly dreams can be snatched away, you know that pain, and that's why you're doing this for him.

"_I know..._" You whisper, rubbing your closed eyes and sighing. He's not going to make this easy for either of you, you can tell just by the tone of his voice that this isn't going to be the simple and clean resolution you'd been hoping for.

"Then why?" He flops down behind you, his chest plastered against your back, his arms wrapped around you. "Why do this to us? We work this way. We need... _I_ need what we have, Scott." His lips are so close to your ear, and you close your eyes, forcing yourself to stay tense against the urge to relax against him.

"You don't, Phil." You gently pry his arms away, and stand, keeping your back to him. "You've got April, and you _knew_ as soon as you told me you were marrying her, this would have to stop." You hear him get to his feet, can hear his mood shift, can hear anger filling him. "Don't." You turn to look at him, your arms folded over your chest. He looks tense, hands balled at his sides, eyes narrowed. "Don't get all pissy, you knew." He glances away, his anger being replaced with something else, something you don't know.

"I'm a selfish asshole, _you_ know that." He shrugs, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "I want what I want, and I expect to get it." A wry little smile twists his lips, and he looks at you from under his lashes, determination burning in his eyes. "You think I'm just gonna walk away?" He steps closer to you, the cocky smirk of his youth resting on his lips. "Think I'm gonna just let you decide that you get to leave me behind?" His chest collides with your own, forcing your back against the wall marked with _X_s. "That's not how this works, Colt... You know that." He leans closer to you, leans in for a kiss, his lips parted, eyes smouldering. "You promised me... You promised me a thousand times that you wouldn't leave me alone."

"And I won't." You rest your hands on his shoulders, fingers clenching in the fabric of his shirt, unsure if you want to push him away, or pull him closer. "You're not on your own... We can't do this to her... I _like_ her." You mutter pitifully, and he smiles triumphantly.

"Me too." He rests his forehead against yours. "She says I get to eat my cake." He grins, and you push him away, a weight settling in your stomach, something leaden and awful, and you can feel it seeping through your veins, filling you with poisonous resignation.

"You already did, Punk." Your eyes rest on the discarded box, and he sighs, a frown forming on his face. "You can't keep eating the same slice."

"Sleep with me." He whispers softly, his eyes focused on the box. You shake your head, and close your eyes. He can't ask you for that, it's not fair, one last time, once more, you can't give him that, not when you've decided. "Look at me." His hand rests on your cheek, not forcing you, just resting there, stroking your sideburn. "_Look at me_." His voice is so delicately soft that you've to strain to hear him.

"I can't..." You need to learn how to say no to this man, you need to finally learn how to refuse your best friend if you want to keep him, and you do, there's very little you want more than to keep your Punkers.

"Look at me." He repeats softly, his fingers adding a little pressure, trying to make you turn to him. "Cabana." You glance up, and stare at him. Life is never fair, it's the object lesson reality has drummed into your head over and over again. You're not in love with Punk, never have been, never will be _in_ love with him, but you do love him, you love him more than anyone person on the planet, and he's _in_ love with someone else, so this _has_ to stop. "Sleep with me." He leans forward, his lips press against yours. You kiss him, slow and timid, and he relaxes against you, his body fluid and pliant in your arms, that wrap around him. It's always felt curiously _normal_ to hold him, to kiss him, to touch him, and this is going to be the last time. You need to commit him to memory, need to make sure that you can remember every curve, every straight line, every inch of him. "I..." He breaks the kiss with something gut wrenchingly sad in his eyes. "C'mon..." He takes your hand and leads you to a different room, one down stairs with an en suite guest bathroom, one you've crashed in many times. The bed in the room is new, well honestly, it's old. "I moved it downstairs..." It's the old bed from his bedroom, a bed you've fucked on more times than you can count. He looks at you oddly, and you shrug. You understand he didn't want to make a tainted bed his marital one; it makes perfect sense to you. He pulls his shirt over his head, and sits on the end of the bed to pull his sock off. "I didn't want to taint what we have." He says softly, not looking up at you, instead focussing on folding his socks.

"What?" You kneel down in front of him, and catch his chin. That wasn't what you'd been expecting him to say, you'd not expected him to explain in the first place, and the explanation you'd have expected is the other way round. You hope there's more he wants to tell you, because with Punk, it's better to let him tell you what he thinks you need to know, and right now you've no idea what he's telling you.

"I love you." He smiles sadly, and nuzzles against your palm. "You're busy trying to leave me, and I love you, and April's miserable, and I'm miserable, and you're not my Bana." He stares at you, his gaze heavy and intense. "You don't get to leave me, you don't..." You don't quite know what to say to him, you've no idea what to make of his words. "Scott, this... It's not cheating, it never has been, it can't be..." He sounds hopelessly sad, and there's a part of you that wants to comfort him, that wants to just cave in and give him what he wants, to let him keep gorging on the same cake over and over again.

"Phil... It is." You tell him firmly, and he meets your eyes, a wounded expression on his face. "Every time, every single time, it's been cheating. We can't do this anymore." You stand, intending to leave the room, saying no to him isn't fun in the least, and you want to go brood, maybe you'll try lying on the floor like he does, you might finally understand why he does it if you try it out for yourself.

"_Please_." He's on his feet and pulling you back to the bed. "Just give me this, one last time, just..." Your resolve crumbles in the face of his soft plea, denying him is far too difficult, and you cradle him close, kissing him softly, gently lapping at his lips. "Hard... If you're walking away, give me something to remember you by." He snarls, his hands tugging at your hair.

"I'm _not_ abandoning you." You can feel anger begin to creep into your gut, anger that he seems to think that without sex on the table, you'll have no reason to stick around. Granted it's a similar conclusion to the one you'd drawn, but it still pisses you off, you love him, he's your beloved best friend with or without fucking. "We can be friends without fucking." You push him away, smirking as he ends up on his back, staring up at you, watching as you strip. "You're my friend far more than anything else." You lean over him and unbuckle his pants.

"You gonna fuck Marty instead?" He scowls and wriggles out of his pants, kicking them to one side. You're unsurprised to find he's gone commando.

"_Yuech_... C'mon, don't go pinning your perversions on other people." You mutter against his throat, and pinch one of his nipples. "Lube?" He flaps a hand at the nightstand and you check the drawer, finding a new, unopened bottle in it. You don't want to think about what feels painfully like hope filling you, because your decision is made, and no matter what he thought the outcome of this was going to be, you know that this is going to be the last time you fuck.

"Hey?" His voice comes as a surprise, you'd not realised you'd been staring at the little bottle, unmoving long enough for him to have gotten off the bed and kneel by it. He smiles, and takes the lube from you. "You okay?" He asks quietly, nothing but genuine concern in his voice, as he opens the bottle, coating two of his fingers, and sits on the bed by you, his legs spread. "You're quiet." He slides one finger inside of himself, hissing softly, and you stare at him.

"Ain't got much to say." You watch him carefully fuck himself with that one finger, before inserting the second, his legs spreading a little further as he stretches himself open.

"If..." He starts, and sighs, pulling his fingers from himself. "_If_ this is the last time, I want you..." He tosses you the lube, and you move between his spread thighs, stroking the hair growing on them. You slide a slick finger into him, listening to his moans, watching him with a strange kind of awe you've not felt in years. You've fucked him so many times that it's almost become routine. You know what he likes; you can bring him pleasure without even thinking about it, it's reflexive, like jerking off. You wonder if it's the same for him, if he has to think about how to get you off or if it's just something he can do.

"You ready, Punkers?" It's a pointless question; you know the answer to it long before you asked. He's been rocking back against your fingers for a while now, and you know that means he's ready for your cock.

"Yeah... Hard, Colt." He smiles at you, his legs wrapping around your waist, and you nod vaguely, sinking into him, sliding into his body in one, smooth stroke.

"You say stop, and I stop, okay?" You pause a moment before drawing back, not giving him time to adjust to being fucked, trying to make this fuck as hard as he wants it.

"_Never_." He moans, his eyes are fixated on yours. "Never saying stop." His back arches, baring his throat to you, and you press the smallest, softest kiss to it that you can, pounding into him hard and fast. You wish you could close your ears to his voice and his words, the way you can close your eyes to the way he looks. He has no idea how hard he's making this for you, no idea how much you want to let him keep both you and O'Neil. She said he deserves it, and he wants it so badly, but it'll be different once she can lay a legal claim on him. Marriage changes people, you've seen it with other friends, making the break now, making this the last time, it'll make it all easier in the long run. "_Fuck._.. _Harder_." His nails are digging into your shoulder blades, his legs _clamped_ around you, squeezing hard and tight.

"Faster too?" You're incredibly proud that you're able to joke with him, stupidly pleased that you've enough about yourself to tease him whilst fucking him one last time. If you can laugh and joke, even whilst your soul is being torn in two, then perhaps you'll survive with what's left of him to be your friend once he's Mr Mendez. You thrust into him firmly, and he makes an indistinct noise, somehow he manages to pull himself closer to you, his eyes boring into your own.

"Harder, faster... I want more, Scott." He grinds out, moving in sync with your thrusts. You grunt in response to his request, and fuck into him harder, your mouth attacking his bared throat once more, careful out of habit, your kisses more scraping and licking, than biting and sucking. "Mark me." He sounds lost, his voice familiarly soft and wispy. You shake your head and keep fucking him, ignoring his almost whined request. "_Please_." He sounds desperate, openly needy, and you shake your head again.

"I can't, you know that." You take his weeping cock in your hand and stroke him firmly, your mouth latching onto his, swallowing up his pleasured moans. You keep kissing him through his orgasm, breaking it only to let your own overwhelm you. You come staring at his hazily contented smile. You lay on top of him, your face against his neck, your eyes closed, trying to commit that smile to memory, you won't be seeing it again, and that makes you feel sick.

"She won't be back till the weekend." He says, his voice soft and sleepy. "Mark me... We've all week." You've never been able to refuse your idiot best friend, never learned how to deny him what he wants, over the years you've done dozens of things you've been dubious of for him, from sounding to joining the mile high club. The only thought that fills your mind is that a week is a long time, there's a lot of things you want to do one last time with him, a lot forbidden fruit you want to have one last bite of, and a week might just be long enough to indulge those desires. You stare down at him, and he tilts his head to the side. He'd let you sate your desires without question. He can't refuse you anymore than you can refuse him. "Please..." There's no point in even pretending that you're considering denying him, your only hope is that O'Neil really is away long enough for the mark you're worrying on his throat to heal.

* * *

_Many thanks to the lovely Ladies and Gentlemen who reviewed:_

**Rebellecherry, littleone1389, and Brokenspell77.**

_One more chapter, I think... _

**_As ever:_**

**_If you liked it: YAY! Let me know what you liked and why!_**

**_If you didn't like it: BOO! Let me know why so I can try to fix it!_**


	5. Phalanx Formation

Warnings:_7 Sins Continuity_ 2nd person Colt PoV, slash (Colt/Punk), smut, implied het (Punk/AJ Lee), more AJ.

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You know that after sleeping with him, after fucking him that one last time you should have gone home the next morning, but you don't. He asks you to spend the rest of the week with him, and if you have one weakness, it's Punk, so you stay. One last fuck turned into several, one last fuck turned into one last week of trying to fit as much in as you could. All week, it seems like he's going to say something, like he's trying to pick the right moment for _something_ but you've no idea what, because apparently the right moment never comes, in fact he says very little in general. You fuck in positions you've not tried since you were kids, do things you've not thought of for years, and it's good, but it's _always_ good, sex with Punk is by and far the best gay sex you've ever had. Though, to be fair sex with Punk is the _only_ gay sex you've had, but you can't imagine someone else being better, with someone else there wouldn't be that connection, you wouldn't love someone else the way you love Punk, so of course it wouldn't be as good. Yet, as good as the sex has been, the best thing about the week so far has been sleeping with him. There's nothing sexual about it, but it's the best thing in the World, falling asleep with him sprawled all over the bed and you, somehow curled up, but still taking up all the space. Every night so far you've held him close, and he's returned the embrace just as tightly. You know that when this week is over, you're going to miss knowing that you'll get to snuggle him the most, because for all that he's part octopus, he's incredibly good for cuddling.

The morning of the day before O'Neil is due back, you wake up to find him sitting up, your head in his lap, his nails scratching at your scalp, talking into his cell. You lie staring up at him, watching his slight smile grow larger as he meets your eyes.

"Yeah, I'm being good... Course! I'm reliable. Well, okay he did, but they're up and all the thingies you wanted on them are there, so everything else is besides the point. I don't care, honey, so don't tell me. No, seriously! La-la-la-la-la!" He sings loudly and off-key. You can't keep from laughing at him, biting your knuckle to keep O'Neil from hearing. "What, course! O'Neil says morning Mikey." He smiles down at you, and you shake your head, getting out of bed, grabbing some boxers and leaving the room.

The sound of his voice follows you to the kitchen, and you ignore it as best you can, switching his coffee pot on, knowing he won't function without having a cup of tar masquerading as coffee.

"So here's where you ran off to?" His arms wrap around you, his lips start moving over the back of your neck. You stand still in his embrace, focussing on the feel of his touch. You're seriously going to have to put more effort into finding Mrs Cabana after today, though stopping fucking him might make finding a wife of your own easier, your attention will be less _divided_.

"I didn't run off, just making breakfast." You shrug, and he nips at the back of your neck so hard you're vaguely concerned he'll leave a mark. "C'mon, aren't you all fucked out?" You laugh, as he murmurs _no_ in your ear, and nibbles on the lobe. "Punkers..." That pointless little whine makes him chuckle, and step away from you.

"What you wanna do today?" You can hear the grin on his face, can tell it'll almost be nothing but a leer if you turn round and look at him. You can guess at what he wants to do. You almost regret thinking that the sex before this week had been a gentle little goodbye that you'd mourn, because this week has reminded you that your best friend is a kinky little fucker. There's a damn good reason there's so many rolls of athletic tape in weird places in both of your houses, and in truth it's that you're going to mourn when it comes to sex with him.

"Today..." You pour a cup of coffee, and hand it to him. "Today, Punkers, I wanna watch shitty movies that you tell me are classics, eat junk food and not move for a few hours." You leave out the fact that you also want to lie snuggled up on the couch, but that's a given at least until today ends. After today, all of his snuggling needs will have to be met by O'Neil, and you're gonna need to buy a dog, a stuffed animal or a hooker to meet your own, maybe Marty will volunteer to be snuggled.

You spend all day as you'd wanted. You'd watched countless films, listened to his occasional comments, offered your own, but mostly you'd been ignoring everything but his body, and the soft skin beneath your fingers. You'd lain with him wrapped in your arms all day, trying to get enough snuggles and cuddles in to last the rest of your life. You're fairly certain he's not going to shunt you out, or ignore you, but this, along with the sex has to be out. Intimacy like this has to be reserved for his wife, for him at least, you're still trying to work out where your snuggles are going to come from.

As you're getting ready for bed, he gathers you to him, and stands in the circle of your arms, chin on your shoulder, his body warm and pliant. It's too comfortable, you know that, if anyone walked in they'd instantly be uncomfortable, men aren't this comfortable with each other. You don't doubt that there will be sex tonight, this is the final goodbye to this chapter of your friendship, tomorrow morning is the start of the next one, and your only hope is that it'll be half as much fun.

"This is the last time, Punkers." You tell him, feeling him tense briefly in your arms, as you move to kiss him again, tasting every inch of his mouth, seeking out his tongue, drawing it into a familiar dance. "Last time we do this." You murmur against his throat, lapping at his skin, your hands tightening on his waist. It's impossible to not enjoy this far more than you should, impossible to know that this is the end, this is the last time you're going to do this. You might have thought the same thing at the start of the week, but this time you're certain it's true.

"_Bullshit_." He whispers, his head falling back slightly. "There's never going to be a last time, Colt." He sounds needy but smug; he's a multitalented man, your best friend. "You can't just walk away from me... I can't just walk away from you." He moans as you start lapping behind his ear. "We both wanted this, we both pushed each other into this. If there's a last time, it'll be because we've _both_ decided on it, not just one of us." You can't help but think he's right there, for all your insistence that this is the end, this is the _last_; you know that if he needed you, you'd be there without question. "This is your decision, buddy, not mine... We'll see how long you stick to it." He smirks at you and shoves you away, pulling his shirt over his head. "I give you a week." He tugs at your shirt, and you shake your head at him, undressing, and letting him pulling you back for another kiss.

"You doubt how stubborn I can be?" You mutter against his lips, suckling on his bottom one, nipping it gently. He laughs, and shakes his head, his hands framing your face.

"Nope, I just know that in the end, I'm more stubborn." That dorky grin is back on his face, clearly, he thinks he's grinding down your resolve, and honestly, he might be, but every time he does, your mind turns to O'Neil. She's a cool lady, but no one is _cool_ with being cheated on, _no one_.

"Hmm... How we doing this?" You ask him, your fingers stroking his waist, holding him tight against you.

"Uh... What's left?" He chuckles, grinning at you, grinding his still clothed groin against your bare one.

"Pff... Nothing... I think... Unless there's something you wanna try out." You shrug, your finger making quick work of his flies, and drawing his cock out, stroking it absently.

"_Try... _Jesus-"

"Nope, I am a Jew, but not that one... Honestly, you racist, thinking we all look the same." You laugh at his mildly indignant expression.

"I am _pro_-isms." His eyes narrow, his lips set in a thin line, and you laugh at him, pecking him on the nose, shoving his pants down.

"Sure, sure... I've heard that before..." You step away from him and flop down on the bed, watching as he finishes undressing and sits down by you. "How'd we do this the first time?" You stare at the wall, considering the colour of the paint, mildly amused to note it's the same colour as your own bedroom.

"The first time?" He wriggles over to you, and rests his head against your shoulder. "First time what? First time we fucked? First time we jerked off together... You want me to find Half-Baked on Netflix? We can recreate me being half zombie." He laughs and you snort at him, wrapping your arm around his shoulders.

"Can we not joke about that? I thought you were gonna die..." You kiss his hair, and he moves, settles between your thighs, a thoughtful little expression on his face.

"Why did you jerk me off?" His hand wraps around your cock, and starts moving slowly, the pace slow and deliberate. "It's been _years_ and you've never really told me why."

"Why? Hmm... You were humping my leg, Punkers." You flick some of his hair out of his eyes, your hand around his dick, matching his steady pace.

"Could have rolled me over and left me be." His hand doesn't speed up, but he does scoot closer, his legs wrapping around you, his heels digging into your back.

"Punkers... You could have hurt yourself... I was... I was scared of you, _for_ you. You could have died, and I was a dumb kid who had no idea what to do." Your thumb swipes the head of his cock, smearing the drip of pre-cum there.

"You mean it wasn't the burning UST between us that led to your hand round my cock?" He laughs, his hand speeding up a little. "I'm disappointed, Bana..." You grin at him, and shake your head. He's an idiot.

"What UST?" You keep your strokes to his cock slow and steady, knowing that it's not the way he jacks himself off, knowing that whilst it's not how he thinks he likes to be touched its how he likes to be touched by you. "You know... You're the one who demanded more." He nods enthusiastically, his hips trying to buck into your deliberately moving hand. "Why?"

"Pff, stupid question! Its _way_ better being jerked off by someone else." He chuckles and leans closer to you, kissing at your neck. "So much better to be touched by someone you care about, infinitely better to have casual sex with someone who isn't going to get pregnant."

"Ha, you know how to make me feel special, Punkers. _I fucked you cause you were there, and you weren't gonna have a baby_... Real special." You mutter, your hand stilling on his cock. He meets your eyes; the smile on his lips is soft and small.

"You _always_ fucking hear the worst don't you?" He laughs, nuzzling against you. "I came demanding more from you cause once I had a little, I wanted more. I'm not gay, _you're_ not gay, but I fucking like you touching me, like being under you, I like fucking you. So, fuck it." His grin has only grown wider, he looks impossibly like he did all those years ago, almost boyishly young, and you stare at him blankly.

"If gay sex was all you wanted, you could have had your pick." Your hand finally speeds up, his eyes drift closed, and a smile spreads across his thin lips. You smile at him, he's a good-looking guy, your best friend, even when he looks like shit, there's something attractive about him, and you know for a fact that there's more than a few men panting after his ass.

"Do you hear a word I say?" He squeezes your cock, his tone verging on annoyed. "I don't want gay sex, I want sex with you. Have Marty do one of those hearing tests on you... Sheesh..." He rolls his eyes and moans as you start stroking his cock faster still, your wrist twisting at his head, rubbing your palm over it.

"But... _Why_?" Your voice catches in your throat, his hand moving over your cock perfectly. He rolls his eyes, and moves away from you, pulling you to lie on your back, then lies over you, your cocks rubbing against each other.

"Cause you're my Colt, my other half... Cause it's what we do." He grins and grinds down against you, as you buck up against him.

"Did..." You cup the back of his head with one hand, the other rests on his ass. "It's what we did, Punkers." He scowls, but before he can open his mouth to protest, you kiss him, keeping him close so he can't protest or argue with you. This is the last time, and you don't think you mind much that it's like this, rutting against him, him rutting against you, it's not something you usually do, but it feels good. You rock against each other, the light mood from before lost in the face of your determination. He truly doesn't seem to want this to end, he truly doesn't seem to realise that it has to end, and you feel like a monster for denying him. Your hands squeeze his ass firmly, pulling him down against you more, his hands frame your face, one tangling in your hair.

"Gonna come." He mumbles, his face pressing against the side of your neck. "You gonna come?" You can't really answer him, the slide of his body over your own has your orgasm tantalisingly close, it won't take much for you to reach your end. "Bana..." He pants out, pulling away from you and flopping onto his back. He lies on his back, staring up at you. "I'll lie still." He smiles slightly, his eyes hazy and soft. "Please, Colt... I'm so close." You think that maybe he might be trying to remind of you that first time in the dungeon room, and even if he isn't you're reminded anyway. He'd been lying just like this, his words then had been so very similar, that day was the start of this thing, and tonight will be the end, that they're reminiscent of each other seems appropriate. You stroke his damp hair from his forehead, and then caress down his cheek to his throat, down the column of his neck to his chest and you pinch his nipple, tweaking the nub of flesh.

"You feeling all nostalgic?" You murmur, kissing him deeply, and taking hold of his cock once more, stroking him firm and fast, chasing his orgasm, your own need to come subsided slightly as you focus on his. He comes staring at you; his eyes focussed on your face, his head tilted back, his throat bared.

"Come on me." He says softly, his gaze unwavering. You can't break his stare, no matter how intense it is, and no matter how uncomfortably exposed you feel under it, you can't look away.

"What?" You lazily stroke your cock, watching his chest heave, and the sweat in his hair glisten in the light.

"My face, come on me." He sounds more than a little demanding, and you almost baulk at his request. He doesn't usually demand things like that, he doesn't usually want cum somewhere so visible, sure it'll be wiped off, but your cum will still have been on your best friend's face, marking him, claiming him almost. You open your mouth to protest, but he moves, and kneels on the floor. "Fuck my face and come on it." He smirks at you, and you have no power to resist that. You thrust into his open and greedy mouth, fucking his throat a shade harder than you think you should and more than likey a shade more gently than he'd like. It's a constant bone of contention between you both, that you're far more careful with him than he wants you to be. You don't last long, between the tightness of his throat, the soft little gagging noises he makes, and his eyes staring up at you, your orgasm approaches rapidly. He pulls back from you suddenly, and takes your cock in his hand, jacking it quickly.

"You sure?" He doesn't answer you verbally, just nods and stares at you, his eyes little more than a thin green ring around big, black pupils. You aim for his mouth, your cum landing on his face, a little in his hair. When you finish, there's a smile and a smear of your cum over his lips, another sluggishly dripping down his cheek that he swipes his finger through, then sucks, pulling it from his mouth with a pop.

"Thanksss." His impression remains possibly the worst you've ever heard, but not everyone can be as talented at impersonating you as Grado. He stays kneeling before you, and you're not entirely sure what he wants, but you suppose he should go clean up.

"C'mon, shower." You stand and offer a hand to him, hauling him to his feet. You expect the shower to be very efficient, but instead he seems to be almost playful, instigating some kind of bizarre tickling contest, and nuzzling against you, more focused on staying in contact rather than getting clean. Eventually, and it truly is eventually, you wind up back in bed, his still damp hair clinging to the underside of your chin, his head on your chest.

"You..." He sighs sullenly, and shakes his head, you can feel his breath on your chest, and something inside of you is utterly devastated at this being the last time you get to do this. "April'll be back tomorrow." You kiss the top of his head, not really trusting yourself to say anything to him, he sighs again, and you tilt his face up.

"Punkers... You _know_ this is for the best." You stroke his cheek, delighted by how small and insignificant the bags under his eyes are. He looks good for being O'Neil's fiancé; you can only imagine marriage will look better on him.

"I disagree, I _staunchly_ disagree, and you're being an asshole, but whatever..." He nuzzles your hand, and frowns. "You've made your mind up. You be an asshole all you want, and when you realise you're being an asshole for no reason, I'll be waiting." He sounds miserably resigned, and you don't answer him, instead you look away from him, to the trail of clothes scattered around the room, the open door showing his dark apartment, and feel as miserable as he sounds.

"It's not me being an asshole... It's what we have to do." You mutter, wondering if you should tidy up a little in case you sleep in too late, or April gets back early.

"She knows, she understands." He says slowly, his nose bumping against your own.

"Did she say that?" Saying you understand, and actually understanding are two very different things, you're entirely certain O'Neil has said this without ever really considering it fully. There is absolutely no way she can be fine with the idea of her husband to be fucking a dude.

"Colt, do you want her to have said, _hey honey, I totes know you bang your buddy, and it's a-okay with me!_ Cause I get the feeling she probably would if she thought it'd help, hell knowing how kinky she is, she'd probably want us to make a tape." He laughs, and kisses the tip of your nose.

"You think that'd make money? I've got the digital distribution platform..." You grin at him, and he looks scandalised.

"You two are the same fucking person sometimes... I swear..." He mutters, shaking his head.

"Seriously? She proposed a gay sex tape?" You really do need to spend more time getting to know O'Neil in a one on one situation, clearly there is more to her that you've realised.

"That was perhaps the _tamest_ of her suggestions... She was pushing me to accept that offer from Brazzers." He settles down against your chest, and presses a kiss to the line of your jaw. "I'm marrying a pervert... A sexy as hell, nerdy-ass perv." He mutters and you laugh at him, your hand stroking down his back lazily.

"Ms O'Neil and I are gonna have to do serious bonding." He actually shudders at your words, and you glance down at him, in the dull light, you think he looks rather pale.

"I _so_ want to say no to that... I think it might bring about the apocalypse... It'd be an unholy union if nothing else." He shifts against you slightly, making himself more comfortable, and yawns.

"_Ha!_ C'mon, you want your fiancé and your buddy-"

"_Best_ buddy." His interjection is quick and ardent, you can't keep the fond smile from your lips, and you press a kiss to his hair.

"Best buddy to get on. It's like empirical." He laughs at you, and you wait for the inevitable correction, you're fairly certain that there's one coming to that sentence.

"Imperative." He kisses you jaw again, and snuggles up once more. "You're gonna do what you want no matter what." He sounds soft and sleepy; you feel another yawn against your skin. "Pair of you are _brats_." He mumbles, sleep overcoming him quickly. "G'night Colt."

"Ni-night Punkers." You can tell the exact moment he falls asleep, his breathing deepening, evening out, his tight grip relaxing somewhat. You lie awake for a little while, your mind carefully blank, fixating on the feeling of holding him, on his warmth and weight on top of you. You're going to miss this, going to miss it so very much.

You've no idea what wakes you up. The room is darker than you'd expected, and Punk is still fast asleep. He's not moved all night, still lying on your chest, his sleep deep, and based on the smile on his lips his dreams sweet. You stare up at the ceiling and try to work out why you woke up. Waking up in the middle of the night is not something you do very often; once you're asleep, you're asleep till the afternoon. You glance about the dark room looking for clues, and stop at the door. When you'd fallen asleep, it'd been open, you distinctly remember it being open, but now it's closed. O'Neil's back. It's the only answer and your blood feels frozen in your veins. You ease him away from you, and pull on your clothes. You can only hope she's not gotten far, or better yet is still in the house. You're not really ready to face her wrath, and you've no doubt its wrath you'll be facing, but it's better to get things like this over with quickly.

"The fuck you doing up?" Her voice is pitched low, clearly intending to not wake up Punk. "Thought you'd be asleep, honey." Her back is turned to you, engrossed in playing a videogame on Punk's ridiculously large TV; clearly, she thinks you're Punk and not you. "Didn't Mikey stop being a worrywart? Honestly, that man. I like him, really, I do, _but_ he seriously needs to remember that he's your first wife... Sheesh... You'd think he didn't know that or somethi-" She stops talking when you sit down beside her. "_Colt!_" She laughs nervously, and rubs the back of her neck. "Thought you were the other one..."

"First wife?" You ask, picking up the other controller, joining her game. She laughs again, and turns away from you, a slight blush on her cheeks.

"Well, you were married..." She mutters, killing something on her half of the screen. You've no idea what you're doing, but you assume that the world of videogames can't have changed that all much, and try to shoot an enemy in front of you. The digital bullet hits the wall and your character takes a shot to the face, losing some but nowhere near all of its health.

"Professionally, years ago." You tell her coolly, trying again and missing once more, and you start swearing under your breath.

"Was there ever a divorce?" She asks calmly, killing another enemy, laughing slightly at her own prowess, and prowess it is, she's damn good at this game, at least based on the amount of numbers in her score.

"He went to the WWE." You miss once more; it seems videogames have changed more than you thought.

"He left." She kills a third enemy, and you glance at what her fingers are doing, trying to work out how she's so very good at this.

"He's marrying someone else." You finally manage to kill the enemy that keeps shooting your character, and notice her wince out of the corner of your eye.

"Yeah, yeah he is... _But_-"

"It's not fair." You can almost guess at what she's going to say, you can almost hear her saying she's okay with what was between you and Punk.

"Are you in love with him?" She asks, she takes out three opponents in quick succession and you laugh, shaking your head. "Then what's the problem?" She pauses the game, and turns to you. "Sometimes you two _indulge_ in each other. Sometimes you snuggle up on the couch, which is _super_ cute by the way, I have pictures... Lots of pictures, be warned. Sometimes you share a bed. It's nothing, it's something you've always done, so why change it?" She stares at you, and you look away from her, you can't take her intense gaze. You've no idea how she wants you to answer. It might be that she means this exactly as it sounds, it might be that she wants you to keep protesting against sex with Punk. You don't know, and that you don't weighs on you.

"April... He's your fiancé. _If_ I had a fiancé, I wouldn't want her and some guy being like me and Punk. It's... It's not _normal_." She laughs at you, and you shake your head, you don't think she really understands. "He wouldn't let you keep fucking some dude." You try, and she laughs at you once more, a grin on her lips.

"He loves you, you love him... It's like..." She pulls an odd face, her nose scrunching up, making her look a lot like a cute little bunny-rabbit. "You're soul mates..." She sounds unhappy with her words, like they're not quite right, and sighs, resting her elbow on the arm of the sofa, twisting a strand of her hair round and round her fingers. "Like... Uff... This is hard." She sighs, and stares at you. "I swear getting him to listen to me when he was being floor Punk was easier than trying to get this into your thick skull." She laughs, and kicks you lightly. "I get that he needs something from you that he can't get from anyone else, and I get that if he doesn't get it, he won't be the dork I'm in love with."

"April-"

"No! No interrupting! You sit and you listen to me, Mr Colton." She snaps, kicking you once more. She definitely learnt how to kick from Punk, your shin is stinging from just two little taps. "You two idiots spent like three, four days not talking to each other, and he didn't get off the floor for any reason other than to piss. I had texts from Marty in a panic cause you were and I quote _Roboto-Cabana_." You stare at her, you didn't think you'd been acting any different round Marty; in fact you were pretty certain you were entirely normal in his company, but apparently not. You're going to have to ask your comedy partner, or Punk at least, what the hell _Roboto-Cabana_ is, because you've honestly no idea. "You two need each other, and if that means that you have to have hot sweaty man sex every so often, then damn it, you're gonna have hot sweaty man sex!" She flushes and grabs the glass of water on the floor in front of her. "Excuse me..." She fans at her face, and you stare at her. "_What?_" She sounds paranoid, fidgeting uncomfortable. "Oh c'mon! What normal red blooded female doesn't like the idea of hot sweaty man sex?"

"Chicks from the Westboro church?" You can't resist the urge to joke, and she chokes on the sip of water she'd just taken.

"Asshole." She mutters, coughing slightly. "I get where you're coming from though. It's basically saying that I don't mind him fucking around behind my back." She shrugs, and takes another drink, acting as though she genuinely doesn't care all that much about it. "First time I realised you two were fucking, I was confused as hell. I mean he was dating my super hot heroine, and yet here he was screwing his best friend... Was weird..." You stare at her in shock. She's known you and Punk had sex since before she was even Punk's girlfriend. O'Neil is too clever, far too clever, and you have to admit you kind of like that, it reminds you of Punk. "Then when we got together, Cupcake Lady took me aside and was like _look sweetie, there are some things with the idiots you just have to accept, and one of these things is that they're probably gonna fuck, you can't deal with that then walk away, cause they ain't gonna not do it_." She laughs, and you're beginning to wonder just how many of Punk's ex's are in on what you were fairly sure was a secret. "Now once I finished hyperventilating and scoffing cakes, seriously how _good_ are her cakes, I tell her that I know, and I'd much rather he burns off his extra energy with a guy I like than some skanky-ass ring-rat." She grins at you, and you're certain you're gawping at her like a fish out of water.

"I'm an upgrade from a ring-rat? I'm flattered!" You laugh at her, and steal her water laughing at her indignant expression.

"I'd kind of like Mrs Cabana to have big tits, just for future reference... You ready?" O'Neil picks up her controller once more, and you nod vaguely.

"You and me both, O'Neil. You got a preference on hair? Height?" She looks at you and shrugs, then bumps her shoulder against yours, un-pausing the game and going back to killing. You've no idea where you stand right now, you need to spend more time with O'Neil, but there's a chance, a _tiny_ chance that should he _really_ need it, you won't deny Punk at least nibble of his cake.

* * *

_Many thanks to the lovely Ladies and Gentlemen who reviewed:_

**Rebellecherry, littleone1389, and Brokenspell77.**

_And we are done... I'm halfway up a mountain for anyone interested, and this was written on my once more functional iPhone... I have missed my phone... :3_

**_As ever:_**

**_If you liked it: YAY! Let me know what you liked and why!_**

**_If you didn't like it: BOO! Let me know why so I can try to fix it!_**

**__****_Also, AJ as ever troubles me, I love writing her, but you know, writing ladies is super scary... Any comments on the lovely Mrs Punk - PLEASE let me know!_**


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